


Await Felicity or Doom

by inexplicifics



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (the monster), Angst with a Happy Ending, Animal Death, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Kissing, M/M, Major Character Injury, Monsters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-18 07:00:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29114160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inexplicifics/pseuds/inexplicifics
Summary: Jaskier crams himself back into the corner of the pantry, trying to curl up even smaller. It’s pitch-dark and he can feel the walls closing in around him, but worse - far worse - than either the darkness or the claustrophobically small space is the sound of scratching against the door.There's a monster out there...and no sign of Geralt.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 23
Kudos: 666
Collections: The Witcher Flash Fic Challenge #014





	Await Felicity or Doom

Jaskier crams himself back into the corner of the pantry, trying to curl up even smaller. It’s pitch-dark and he can feel the walls closing in around him, but worse - far worse - than either the darkness or the claustrophobically small space is the sound of scratching against the door.

He’s not entirely sure what the hell the creature is. It’s big and hairless and dark and has really distressingly large claws and teeth, and that was quite enough information to be going on with as far as Jaskier is concerned.

Geralt would know what it is. But Geralt is far away, off hunting a pack of barghests, having left Jaskier behind in this crumbling farmhouse for his own safety, as even a witcher’s might would not have been able to protect Jaskier from more than a dozen enemies.

Jaskier doesn’t think the monster is a barghest, but it could be.

Fuck - if it’s a barghest, that would mean it got past Geralt, and the only way a monster like this would get past Geralt would be if Geralt was -

If Geralt was -

No. Jaskier can’t bear the thought. Whatever the thing is, it definitely isn’t a barghest. Geralt is _fine_.

The monster thumps against the door, rattling the frame. Jaskier uncurls, setting his feet and fixing his eyes on the very faint line of slight-lighter grey under the door as the scratching intensifies. He has a dagger, the silver dagger Geralt gave him years ago, and gods willing, when this thing comes through the door, if he’s only going to have one chance before it falls on him, he’ll be able to make that blow count.

*

Geralt stumbles over a tree root and falls heavily to one knee, catching himself with one hand on the tree’s rough bark before he can faceplant into the rocky ground. His other hand is clasped tightly over the gruesome bite-wound in his side. His blood is hot against his fingers, oozing out far too swiftly. He needs to stop, needs to stitch himself up and meditate or sleep, but there’s one barghest left -

One left, and it is heading straight for the farmhouse where Jaskier is waiting.

Jaskier can hold his own in a bar fight (Geralt wishes he didn’t know that) and can talk himself out of _nearly_ all the trouble he gets into, but a barghest is a different sort of danger. And these were...Geralt suspects there was a mage involved at some point, one of the ones who likes to fuck with monsters to see if they can make them even more dangerous, just for shits and giggles. If there’s any justice in the world, whichever idiot mage decided to make barghests half again as large and twice as fast got _eaten_ by the fucking things before they decided to go on the rampage which got Geralt hired to deal with them.

The world being what it is, Geralt suspects the mage in question - if there was a mage - portaled out and went off to do something else just as stupid and unpleasant, without any consequences at all.

He staggers to his feet and forces himself forward, trying to ignore the steadily growing pain in his side, the thick hot blood spilling over his fingers. It’s not fatal - it won’t be fatal, at least, if he has the opportunity to stop and rest soon. He’s barely a mile from the farmhouse now. Surely the barghest will double back soon, will smell the blood and despair and decide Geralt is suitably easy prey. Surely a wounded witcher will be more appealing a meal than a scrawny bard.

He’s not worried about Roach. Roach can outrun any barghest that ever lived, even these mage-made abominations, and will cheerfully kick the thing’s head in if it gets close enough. But Jaskier is not fleet-footed as a horse, nor as capable of kicking a bargest’s head down between its shoulders.

Geralt finds himself grinning foolishly, blood on his teeth, at the idea of what sort of chaos Jaskier with iron-soled shoes could cause. The bard _does_ kick surprisingly hard, preferring to use his feet rather than risk his hands in brawls. With iron soles he could do some really impressive damage.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t have iron-soled shoes just now. He doesn’t have _any_ armor, and Geralt stumbles against another tree as a shriek rises out of the farmhouse. Fear, not pain, he realizes after a moment’s stark horror. But fear is bad enough.

There isn’t a second scream. Geralt fumbles the sword off his back and stumbles forward as fast as he can. No second scream - that could be good or very, very bad.

Please gods, let Jaskier have found someplace to hide - have scrambled up into a loft where the barghest cannot reach, or into the pantry where a barred door will keep him safe long enough for Geralt to reach the house.

Let the silence be of exertion, or of fear, or simply of a very sensible attempt to keep from being found.

Jaskier is always talking, singing, laughing. He cannot be -

Geralt shoves the thought away and tries desperately to move a little faster as his vision begins to haze. He can’t fall now. He can’t.

He won’t.

It’s edging on towards dawn - the sky ought to be lightening, but somehow everything is growing dark instead.

*

The scratching keeps getting louder, and now Jaskier can hear the monster snarling, too, like it knows its prey is close and cornered and can’t keep silent any longer. Jaskier fumbles in the dark, feeling around the tiny pantry for anything that might be useful. Whoever lived here cleaned the place out pretty well, unfortunately; Jaskier silently curses prudent housewives. But there’s an old broom-handle in the other corner, and something that’s a broken bucket by the feel.

Jaskier swallows a whine of terror when the bucket thumps against the wall and the monster outside growls, but - a bucket and a pole - he can maybe give himself a slightly, _slightly_ better chance. The silver dagger has a surprisingly good edge; Jaskier thinks there may have been magic involved, because silver doesn’t generally make a sturdy weapon. Maybe the witchers have figured out some mystical technique or other, he’s not sure.

Whatever it is, it’s good enough that the edge bites into the wood of the broom-handle without any trouble. Jaskier goes slowly - he doesn’t dare cut himself, and in the darkness, he’s doing everything by feel. The line of greyness beneath the door is growing lighter. Dawn - but whatever this monster is, it apparently doesn’t care about daylight. Still, the faint greyness is just enough to let Jaskier get his makeshift trap set up, the shapes of broom-handle and bucket slightly darker blotches against the blackness of the pantry.

Trap set, he crouches in his corner again, dagger gripped tightly in one sweat-slick hand, and waits. The door can’t hold much longer, and when it breaks…

Jaskier sets his jaw and waits.

*

Geralt half-collapses against the doorframe of the farmhouse. The door hangs off one hinge, knocked open by a heavy body. There’s a smear of foul-smelling blood upon the frame; the barghest is injured, though not, Geralt knows, anything like as badly as he is. He adds a bloody handprint to the mess as he shoves himself upright again.

He can hear scratching, as of claws against wood, and a low continuous growl, and past that, if he strains his ears, a too-fast steady thumping that he’d know blind-drunk at the end of the world.

Jaskier is alive.

Now Geralt just has to keep him that way.

He lurches against the wall again as he reaches the doorway to the kitchen, and one knee gives out. He slides down the wall, snarling silently at his body’s betrayal. He _can’t_ fail now. Not so close.

He claws his way up again. The world is oddly dim, though he knows the sun is rising. Ahead of him, he can _smell_ the barghest, the foul reek of its blood and the bitterness of its musk, and over that the sharp biting scent of Jaskier’s fear.

There’s a splintering, terrible crash, and a triumphant snarl like the end of the world, and Geralt staggers forward, sword wavering in his hand, to see the barghest lunge through the broken pantry door -

It feels like Geralt is swimming through honey, the arc of his sword far, far too slow -

And the barghest howls in agony and lurches back.

Geralt falls forward, letting his own weight make up for the strength he’s lost in the trail of blood he left behind him, and his silver sword pierces all the way through the barghest, nailing the thing to the bloodstained floorboards but missing every single vital organ. He gasps a broken syllable that wants to be a curse. There’s no way he can get the sword out again -

The barghest’s agonized howl cuts off, and for a moment there is utter silence, broken only by the quiet spatter of Geralt’s blood upon the floor and the too-fast, blessedly loud thumping of Jaskier’s heartbeat.

Geralt sighs in relief and lets the darkness rise up and engulf him at last.

*

Jaskier stands there shaking for a moment, staring at the monster. His trap worked better than he’d dreamed it could: the monster had lunged through the door and directly onto the sharpened broom-handle, braced against the wall and propped up on the broken bucket to form a makeshift boar-spear. And then _something_ happened out past the shattered door, and the thing had turned its attention away just long enough for Jaskier to dart in past the flailing paws and drive the silver dagger hilt-deep into the monster’s throat and _twist_.

It’s dead now, thank fuck. Jaskier has no idea what he would have done if that _wasn’t_ enough to kill it. He clambers over the body, grimacing at the awful stickiness of the hairless flesh, and yanks the remainder of the door open.

The back end of the monster is pinned to the floor by a very familiar steel sword - and on the ground beside the monster is a crumpled mass of black leather and pale skin and red, red blood.

Jaskier makes a noise he genuinely can’t describe and scrambles over the monster’s body to fall to his knees beside Geralt. Fucking _hell_ , there’s a bite taken out of his side that ought to have killed any mortal man.

But Geralt’s not dead. He’s still breathing, if far too shallowly; the blood is still welling slowly and horribly from the dreadful gash.

Jaskier takes a deep breath and sets his shoulders. Geralt’s alive, and he’s going to damned well stay that way.

*

Geralt wakes up in rather less pain than he expected, lying on a relatively soft surface of some sort with something heavy weighing down the uninjured side of his body. It feels as though someone has stitched up the gash in his side and probably poured a dose of Swallow down his throat, and probably Kiss too, given that he’s not still unconscious.

He blinks his eyes open and turns his head to see a mass of fluffy brown hair resting on his shoulder. The weight along his side is Jaskier, fast asleep.

Geralt shifts his arm very slowly until it’s wound around Jaskier’s waist, and presses a feather-light kiss against that messy hair. Jaskier sighs and shifts, nuzzling closer, and then goes still for a moment, heart speeding up, before lurching half-upright and staring down at Geralt with enormous sky-blue eyes.

“You’re awake!”

Geralt nods. Jaskier lets out a shaky breath and slumps down to rest his head on Geralt’s chest, staying considerately well-clear of the bandages wrapped around Geralt’s torso. “Fuck, Geralt, I thought we were _both_ dead for a minute there.”

“You did good,” Geralt says.

“I killed a whatever-the-fuck-that-was, and rest assured, as soon as I am back on my feet I am going to make _such_ a song out of my redoubtable courage and ingenuity, but holy gods I do not want to do that again.”

Geralt strokes his back gently. “I don’t want you to either. But I’m glad you did.”

“You’re not allowed to die on me,” Jaskier mutters against his chest. “Strictly forbidden, do you understand?”

“Understood,” Geralt says, unable to repress a smile. “I’ll do my best.”

“You’ll do _better_ than that,” Jaskier grumbles, and lifts his head to fix Geralt with a surprisingly fierce glare. “No dying.”

“Same goes for you,” Geralt says. If he never has to feel his heart in his throat at the idea of Jaskier falling beneath a monster’s claws and teeth again, it will be far too soon.

“Deal,” Jaskier says, and leans down to seal the promise properly.

Geralt lets his eyes fall shut and holds Jaskier close, and revels in the kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Flash Fic Challenge #14.


End file.
